


I Get the Blame for Everything

by mcj



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:59:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24157753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcj/pseuds/mcj
Summary: Why is it that everytime something goes wrong all eyes turn to Gordon?
Kudos: 12





	I Get the Blame for Everything

Disclaimer – I do not own the characters. I just write them.

"Gordon!"

The word thunders up the stairwell like an avalanche in reverse.

It's my Dad, of course. In case you haven't guessed it yet, he doesn't take too kindly to door slamming.

Well, I'm not sorry I slammed the door to my bedroom and I'm not sorry for what happened at the dinner table either. I'm tired of getting the blame for everything that goes wrong around here and at eleven and half, it's high time I was allowed to say so.

"Gordon … Tracy!"

Uh oh … there's something about the way he kind of just said that. I think I'd better simmer down and take the time to answer him. There's one thing my father doesn't tolerate and that's any rudeness. In his opinion, rudeness is the ultimate disrespect.

Mindful of his expectations and remembering what happened to Alan the last time he pushed his luck; I decide it's in my best interests to re-open the offending door.

"What Dad?"

It's hard not to sound like I'm sulking; standing here like an idiot, peering out into the semi-darkness. I know better than that. For the record, Dad doesn't take too well to sulking either.

"Close that door the way that I expect it."

The instruction leaves little scope for misinterpretation and there is silence in the dining room as everyone, including Dad, waits for more.

"Thank you," he rumbles as I close the door more gently, effectively removing myself from the family and the world.

But now I'm trapped in my own boring world.

Four walls, a bed and a window … and a desk which reminds me I haven't started my homework yet.

No television.

No games.

No music.

No supper.

Gordon Tracy, a prisoner of misunderstanding for the fifth consecutive night this week.

I don't understand why Dad always gets so damn mad. It wasn't my fault that the salt shaker had sugar in it. All Grandma told me to do was fill it up before suppertime. I tried to tell him at least three times that she didn't exactly say with what.

Of course Dad didn't want to hear it. Not a chance. No sir. Not him. All he could do was snap how hard he found it to believe that I'd want to deliberately ruin Scott's welcome home supper with one of my silly pranks. Which, he growled in his cranky deep voice, he didn't find the least bit funny. Then, before I even got a chance to defend myself, he stands up, points in the direction of the stairs and sends me to my room to think about the consequences of my own stupidity.

Okay; so this time I am thinking about it, and all I can say is I'm not the only one who was suffering from a bout of stupidity around that table. The way I figure it, Scott should never have tried to drown his food with salt in the first place. A little sugar to sweeten things up was never going to hurt anybody. How was I to know he'd go over the top and nearly empty the whole darn thing?

Man, all this thinking about food is starting to make me hungry. Even with the door closed, I can still smell Grandma's pot-roast. Grandma's pot-roast is my favourite; plus she's made a pie. I can't believe Dad expects me to stay up here and think about stupidity while everyone's enjoying that.

Hmpph... but he does. If Dad has his way, I'll be holed up in this dungeon forever. He said he expects at least one thousand words on why good food shouldn't be wasted before I'll be allowed to see the "outside" this time. Worse still, he said I have to apologise to Scott for single-handedly ruining his supper, and, if I know what's good for me, I'd better make very sure I made some sort of effort to mean it.

Gee whiz, Dad. How about you lighten up? Don't you have any sense of humour at all?

No.

Where Dad's concerned, none of my latest have been funny and no matter how hard I try to weasel out of it, the punishment is going to occur.

I may as well get started, I suppose. Pity I can't remember where I put the writing paper after the last one thousand words. But that one was so worth it though. Virgil scratched his ass for best part of a week before he figured out what was going on with his shorts. It was pure genius and I've never laughed so hard in my life.

But Dad and Grandma didn't share the sentiment.

The logo of the Tracy Corporation looms up from underneath my homework indicating it was on the desk since the last time. Dad gave me a whole ream of the stuff after he finished dealing with Virgil's "unfortunate little predicament." He said I'd need the whole damn lot if I was going to write down everything he expected to read. He was furious when he found out the reason for Virgil's late night confession. Didn't I understand the damage I might have done?

I don't know about understanding it but I didn't think there was anything wrong with using a little itching powder to liven up the party inside my big brother's shorts. I tried to tell Dad that when he made me stand in front of him.

"It was only a joke Sir. I didn't mean to cause him any harm."

Dad's reply was that I didn't have a clue what real harm was and if I continued to keep this up, I was going to find out soon. For half an hour Grandma had been trying to convince Virgil to drop his shorts so she could see what the heck was going on. Couldn't I see the harm in that?

I guess I didn't get it, because no matter how many times he said it to me, I kept on shaking my head and saying "No, Sir." But I did try to look a little bit penitent watching Grandma almost dragging Virgil behind the bathroom door.

"Why I shouldn't interfere in my brother's personal business."

By the time I finished writing that one, I really was starting to feel sorry. There's something about the Tracy Corporation Logo which drove it all home after an hour and half of sitting at my desk. I started out writing about why I shouldn't have done what I did to Virgil but by the end, all I could think about was Dad and how hard he has to work all year to provide for us. It almost made me feel bad for pushing his buttons.

Lucky it didn't last too long.

The logo is staring me in the face again as I reach over to pick up a pencil. It's hard to be enthusiastic knowing I'll still be looking at it for the best part of the next two hours.

"Why Good Food Shouldn't Be Wasted."

Only Dad could think up such a boring subject.

One thing's for certain though; if I value what's left of my life, I'd better make sure I write something pretty awe-inspiring before the supper's over and Dad rocks up. And that's not going to be easy. A kid like me doesn't know anything about wasting food. I never waste anything I'm given.

Geez, how's a guy supposed to concentrate when all he can smell is his grandmother's pot roast? She's got all this other great stuff in the middle of the table as well ... her crispy roast potatoes with just the right amount of seasoning, those green beans she grew in the garden herself … and her secret recipe - the red wine jus. My mouth is watering so hard I'm drowning in my own saliva and my stomach is groaning so hard, it hurts. A growing kid like me shouldn't be expected to write on an empty stomach. Doesn't the law give kids any rights? I guess the look Dad gave me before I was dismissed from the table is any indication, I think I lost all the rights to anything the moment the sugar started pouring out of the salt shaker.

"Why Good Food Shouldn't Be Wasted."

The six words flourish across the top of the page accompanied by a smile of great satisfaction. Only nine hundred and ninety-four more to go and I'll be back at the dining room table happily wolfing down my supper.

"... by Gordon Cooper Tracy."

And there's another four.

"...aged eleven."

Nice touch. That makes twelve. Good job, Gordie. Now you're down to only nine hundred and eighty eight.

"Written for making an innocent mistake and putting sugar in the salt shaker."

Nine hundred and seventy-five.

"... even though I didn't mean to."

Nine hundred and sixty-nine.

I think it's time to congratulate myself. I've written thirty-one really meaningful words. At least when Dad comes up here I can say, "Yes Sir, of course I've started." And I can guarantee he'll be up here the minute he's excused everyone from the table. He's so predictable when it comes to discipline but Grandma says I've seriously lost the plot if I think my father is anything close to being predictable. According to Grandma; with youngsters like me fraying what's left of his every nerve on an almost nightly basis, Dad's likely cut loose and do more than what anyone's expecting from him.

But he does it enough times for me to be right.

When Dad comes up here, he'll knock twice to make absolutely sure I know he's out there and I'm decent. He's a lot more careful about just walking in on us these days, especially after the time he barged in on Johnny reading a magazine minus his shorts. Once he's comfortable he won't be faced with something similar, he'll open the door, walk over to the window and systematically close all the drapes. Then he'll sit on my bed, look at me in silence, sigh and start shaking his head. Then he'll ask me to explain to him why I constantly need to cause more uproar in the house than what there already is. He won't even blink while he makes it clear, and he'll point out that it's for the fifth time this week, that there's a need for order and self-discipline in a family of young men. After that, he'll ask to see what I've written as a punishment and count the number of words.

Thirty-one words. Boy, thirty-one words sure isn't going to cut it with my Dad. He's going to give me the old "JT" frown of disapproval, growl I'm not taking him seriously and threaten to do more than make me write a few words.

"Wow Grandma, this pie is the best. Is there enough left for me to have seconds?"

Gee, Alan sucks. He knows I can hear every word he's saying and that I've been hanging out for my piece ever since Grandma closed the oven door. Those layers of golden pastry have been my whole reason for living for the past two hours. How dare he think he's about to get my share!

At least it's some consolation when the tone of Dad's voice changes again and he growls at Alan too. He's had more than his fair share of everything tonight, including the pie and he can now consider himself excused.

Here it comes …

Three …

Two …

One ...

"But Daaaaaaaaaad ..."

Blast off!

It never ceases to amaze me just how dumb Alan really is. He argues the point with Dad every single time he's given an instruction and he still hasn't figured out yet that what Dad says goes.

Yep ... and it's exactly the same result as last night.

Dad's just handed him the kitchen duty again.

"Aww Dad…"

"I'm warning you Alan; not another word..."

I sure wish I was the one who could think of a couple of more words. I can hear the rattle of glasses already as Grandma carries in the cognac. Once all that's gone, I'm cactus. He'll be up here, wanting to see what I've done.

So here goes nothing...

"Food is something a kid should never ever take for granted. I'm sorry I did that when I put sugar instead of salt into the salt shaker."

Brilliant! Those are the exact twenty-seven words of real regret Dad will be expecting to see written on the paper.

"This is because many people have no food to eat."

Now it's flowing freely.

"And if Scott happened to be one of those starving people I'm talking about, he'd have eaten Grandma's pot roast without complaining to anyone about the sugar."

I stop for a few minutes to re-read the last twenty-seven words. I don't think Dad will be too happy. But let's face it, if Scott was starving like I am right now he'd have eaten the whole thing with or without the sugar, and knowing him, he'd be eyeing off the plate and cutlery too.

Twenty-seven words are carefully erased and whilst I don't particularly like to admit it, so does the certain threat to my hind-parts.

Oh well, I'm back to nine hundred and thirty-two again and it's only taken me fifty-four minutes. My fingers jab at the desk calculator. 1.25 words per minute. At this rate it will be 19.41 hours before Dad lets me out of my room to eat what's left of my supper. There's no way my share of Grandma's pie is going to survive that; not with Alan hanging around it like a vulture and three other brothers in the house!

"Your theory could be substantiated by years of intense research I suppose."

"That's not true. My theory can be substantiated right now by precise mathematical equation."

Virgil and John.

Thanks to Alan, they've escaped the pain of doing the chores again and are on their way upstairs to watch a little television. As usual, they're arguing; this time over John's latest astronomical theory. He's been saying for months there has to be more than one universe and he's been somehow trying to convince everyone that he's an expert and we need to listen to him. I think he's wasting his time trying to convert Virgil. Virgil's never been a guy who puts faith in theories; I think he learnt the hard way after experimenting with too many of Scott's. John, on the other hand is devoted to them, particularly when they relate to his passion for anything to do with the mysteries of the solar system.

Virgil and John have become pretty close since Scott left home for College. These days, they spend a lot more time together. I guess it's kind of nice for John because he's always been the one in the middle. Pity it's not too good for me. I liked the security of having John around when Alan and I weren't talking. I could always rub it in Al's face that I didn't need him. Ever since Scott went away, John's made the same thing pretty clear to me. He says Alan and I need to grow up and try to get along. He and Virgil now have "more adult things to do" than to referee the arguments of two silly "kids."

"That pie of Grandma's sure was delicious, hey Virg?"

"Delectable Johnny. Simply delectable."

"Every crumb literally melted in my mouth."

"It was one of Grandma's best, all right."

"So light ..."

"So sweet ..."

"Virgil!"

"What?"

"Maybe you were another of Gordon's victims with the salt? "

A joint outburst of laughter follows a playful round of tapping on my door. They love it when I can't reciprocate. Let's see how much they're laughing tomorrow morning when they try to get their feet into their sneakers. Then they'll know who is the king of reciprocation.

Another tap; this time, sharp and business-like and my eyes open wide in panic.

He can't have finished his cognac. Not this soon. Usually Grandma manages to keep him downstairs for at least a couple of hours; hoping against hope he'll start to simmer down.

Please don't come in and close the drapes yet, Dad. I've only written sixty-eight words to show you when you ask.

But the door opens anyway and I'm left with no option but swallow and forget about having any dinner.

He doesn't move towards to the window. He doesn't close the drapes either. He simply stands there shaking his head. It's hard not to feel intimidated when all I see is how tall he is and how disappointed he seems in me.

"Bet you thought I was Dad, huh?"

Everything inside me says to admit I did. Admit it; yeah, and then add that boy, was I ever glad that it was only him.

But I don't admit anything. Instead, I shrug my shoulders and return to the lines of my punishment. I don't want to talk to Scott about anything right now because this whole damn mess happened thanks to him.

He was the one who forced me to do my homework without help when Dad went away on business. He left me with no choice but to play ball on my own. He was the one I looked for when I fell and hurt my shoulder and had to miss the inter-school swim meet. He was the only one I wanted to talk to when I had trouble deciding whether it was right to kiss that girl.

And he wasn't there.

He'd left and gone away to College.

I wouldn't have sabotaged anything tonight if he hadn't changed so much. I didn't know what else to do to get his attention. I've never had to fight for it before. Ever since he came home from College all he's wanted to do is talk to Dad about his plans to be a fighter pilot in the Air Force after graduation. He hasn't made the time to talk about anything with me.

"How's the essay coming?"

I don't want him to insult me by trying to act all interested in me now. Thanks to him; Dad almost went ballistic and I ended up with one thousand words.

"It's not coming," I snap back; determined not to have anything to do with him. "I don't know how Dad can expect me to concentrate anything when I'm not allowed to eat any food. "

The words are an accusation; my way to make a point; and one he seems to ponder on before trying to find the right words.

"I think you know that you deserved it, squirt."

That statement really hurts; not because I've made a big effort to try and do things myself this year, but because the statement says I'm guilty and the statement was made by him. Before he went away, he used to be the only one who understood me or who was prepared to listen or at least take my side. He could always smooth things over with Dad no matter what I did. Scott isn't just my brother. Scott used to be my very best friend.

Now I look at him … standing just like Dad does … sounding just like Dad sounds …and not even hesitating to take Dad's side too. I don't have to put up with that. Scott isn't Dad and I'm not going to sit here for one more minute and pretend that I know I deserve anything.

"I didn't deserve it," I snarl back in aggravation. "Like I tried to tell Dad at the table, the whole thing was an accident."

This time he makes no attempt to disguise his puzzled look.

"Gordie?" he queries, in a voice of genuine concern.

No Scott, I don't have to explain myself to you.

"Gordie, what?" I spit back.

Spare me the look, Scott.

"Gordie; how about you calm down and tell me what the hell is wrong?"

No. Why would you care? And why would I care about you wanting to leave home to join the Air Force?

"Nothing's wrong."

I don't need you anymore, Scott. The homework's not so hard now and I've gotten used to playing ball by myself.

"Well, something's eating you."

Now you notice. Maybe you should've noticed a lot of other things before now too… like the welcome home sign me and Alan took hours and hours to make for you; the one you didn't bother to look at because you were too busy talking to Dad about the Air Force.

"No it's not."

"I'm not quite so sure about that, squirt."

"Just leave me alone will you, Scott?"

His answer was silence.

Normally after an outburst, Scott would continue to push until he figured out why the brother who's always outgoing, always happy and always agreeable suddenly seemed to be out of sorts. All part of the job of being the eldest, he used to say during the interrogation; and the only way he knew to avoid conflicts ending up in the hands of Dad.

But tonight even that's different. Tonight, there's no pushing or the fear of involving Dad. Tonight, all he does is offer a quiet apology as he turns away, headed for the door.

"I'm sorry Gordon. I was only trying to help. If you need me to look over that thing for you when you're finished it, I'll be next door catching up on some television with John and Virgil."

I watch with regret as he opens the door. I can't figure out why I said that to him. I only wanted to have him all to myself for as long as I possibly could. He's my favourite brother and the only security blanket against the real world me and Alan have ever had.

"W... wait, Scotty. "

Maybe it's how I stammer which causes him to turn. Maybe it's the kind of saddened way I call him by his childhood name. Whatever it is, he knows I need to talk to him and he's only waiting for me to say the word.

"I do have something bothering me and its bothering me a lot. Please, Sir. Can I tell you?"

"Sure."

Other than that, all I get for my humility is the good old "Scott Tracy" smirk. It's not the fact that I tend to forget myself and often accidentally refer to him as "Sir"; in fact, I think he rather likes the compliment of me putting him on a par with Dad; it's the fact his patience has proven, yet again, he knows me better than I thought he did.

"It wouldn't happen to be about a certain thousand words?" he asks.

When I nod my head and start to redden, the smirk melts into a look of brotherly sympathy. He closes the door again and strides over to the desk; this time in solidarity.

"Gordon, you ought to know by now Dad has a reputation for handing it out tough. You've just got to knuckle down and write this one. He's not going to let you off."

I wish I could be like him and accept when I'm in trouble with our Dad. Scott wouldn't even know what being in trouble with Dad was. Even when we were younger, Dad never sent him upstairs at suppertime or made him sit at a desk and write lines. All Dad ever did was say what a fine upstanding young man Scott was turning out to be and how proud Mom would be if only she was still with us.

"Scott ..."

I falter and redden further at the realisation I'm only jealous. Scott can't help being perfect in Dad's eyes. I suppose that's what comes when you're the eldest and you've had to give everything you have to help raise your four little brothers.

"What Gordie?"

"I need to tell you something else too."

His eyes narrow like Dad's do and his expression tells me he's wary. Past experience has taught him when one of us needs to "tell him something else"; the news generally isn't going to be good.

"You mean there's more to all this than just writing a couple of lines?"

I nod my head again; almost too ashamed to say anything.

It then becomes clear that my big brother hasn't changed at all. His face fills with its customary worry. What's happened? Am I hurt? Have I gotten myself into more trouble?

When I finally find the courage say a guilty "sort of" he looks more worried than before.

"Maybe I might need to sit down then."

My bed creaks as he proceeds to do exactly that.

After a while, he leans forward so our eyes are level. He reaches out and squeezes my shoulder with his hand. It's OK to confide in him. It doesn't matter what it is. If need be, we can tell Dad what's happened together.

"Okay."

I swallow and brush the moisture from my eyes.

He listens to me in silence as everything floods out - the homework, the ball playing, the shoulder, the girl. Finally, once it all did, he took forever to consider his words.

For a start, I needed to get a couple of things straight. Firstly, I was wrong if I thought for one moment he didn't miss us. There wasn't a day he didn't wonder what we were doing or if we were all getting along. Secondly, he knew how busy Dad was with the business and worried all the time I might not be getting the right answers in my homework; particularly Math.

He didn't like the fact that I was playing ball alone.

He'd felt really bad when Dad told him about my shoulder, and wished more than anything I'd have taken more care. What the heck was I doing hanging upside down in the oak tree the night before the swimming meet? I wouldn't have been doing it if he'd have been around. Dad had told us a thousand times climbing the tree was dangerous. I needed to retain things like that if I didn't want to get hurt.

But as for my problem with the girl...

"I think you'd better make an appointment to talk to Dad about that," he warns me with a grin which tells me he's been there before. "Believe me; you'll soon be learning the hard way, he's an expert in how he expects you to treat women."

The two of us smile at each other and in that split second in time, our bond as brothers has never seemed stronger. It felt so good to tell him what had been on my mind for almost seven months…how unhappy I'd been since he left us... how much I'd looked forward to him coming home ... hell I even broke my promise to Virgil and let him in on every little detail about what happened at home with the shorts and the itching powder.

"Are you serious?" he laughs in disbelief. "There's no way Virg would've dropped his shorts for Grandma; even if it was in the privacy of the bathroom. Please tell me Dad did something to get him out of it."

To be honest, I don't remember what the heck Dad did. All I remember was Grandma having more than her fair share to say about diseases and everyone who was anyone being pretty mad at me.

Especially Virgil.

Once he hears me mention Virgil, Scott becomes serious. Of course Virg would be mad at me for pulling a crazy, stupid stunt like that. Having to confess to Dad and Grandma that he was continually having to scratch "the equipment" would have been nothing short of embarrassing for the poor guy. It was wrong for me to laugh and worse still; wrong to expect others to laugh too.

I tell him that I don't understand. He'd just been laughing at Virgil's misfortune. Why was it different for me?

"The difference is I wouldn't have thought about doing it to him in the first place," he stresses, sounding every bit as firm as Dad. "Virgil's my brother and I care about him a lot."

The pit of my stomach starts to hurt and I have to press my lips together to stop them vibrating. It's always about being considerate of Virgil or understanding the moods of John. If it isn't them, it's about being nice to Alan, no matter what the hell he's just done. It's never about me or how I feel about anything.

The words come out before I know it, as I lose what's left of my bravado and crumble, turning away so he doesn't see.

"I'm your brother too. How come you don't care about me?"

"Huh?"

"Dad says you do and I need to quit whining and start growing up … but I don't believe him."

"Gordie, just stop ..."

"Scott; if you did care; you wouldn't have left."

I turn my tear-stained face to his.

"You wouldn't have left me and gone away to College."

So there it was then.

I'd finally admitted it.

At eleven and a half , Gordon Tracy can't deal with the fact he's no longer a full-time part of his big brother's world. It does sound like I need to grow up like Dad says, and I know I still have three other brothers to complain to and argue the point with. It's just not the same that's all, and I can't help it if I don't like it.

I guess Scott's thinking I need to grow up too as he looks at me with sadness and then averts his own eyes. After a while, it's him, not me, who swallows. Then he puts an arm around my shoulders and makes an effort to lower his voice.

Things don't stay the same forever. He learnt that lesson a very long time ago. Yale was part of a very important step he needed to take in his life. He was learning a lot of new things there; adult things; things which would help him carve out a career for himself when he graduated and applied to join the Air Force. Yes, it was true joining the Air Force would take him away from us; but sometimes I had to try and see things from his perspective too. He wasn't just our big brother any more. He had dreams and aspirations. Flying aircraft like Dad was something he'd wanted to do ever since he was little. He hoped I could understand how important it was to him and accept it was time for him to go.

He also honestly understood about the pain of trying to cope alone with the homework. I wouldn't remember anything of course; but when Mom died he had to learn to do his homework by himself too. Dad had been too weighed down with responsibility to worry about things like checking math, let alone make time to play ball. Dad didn't have time to do anything but work back then. It was just the way it was.

However, in hindsight, things didn't turn out so bad. Virgil soon learned to throw a ball to him and he realised he liked spending time with Virgil. Maybe I could do the same with Alan? He knew for a fact Alan was pretty handy with a ball.

But, as for me no longer being a full-time part of his world … I would never have to worry about that.

Not now.

Not ever.

He'd made a solemn promise he'd always be there if any of his little brothers needed him and no matter what, he'd never break that promise. I could count on it.

Because it was the last thing he promised to our Mom.

Our hug is brief and if anyone says they saw anything, both of us will deny it. Dad says that this is a household of men, and there's no room around here for any tears or over the top displays of emotion. Having said that; he was the one who hugged Scott for nearly five minutes the night before he left for College and the one who wore the dark glasses around the house the morning after Scott had gone.

But, as usual, Scott soon forgets he's mister nice guy and starts asserting his usual big brother authority.

"Now Gordon; enough's enough. How about you stop complaining about everything and anything and start thinking about something a little more urgent?"

"Like what?"

"Like the fact you haven't written one thousand words and I can hear Dad talking to Grandma at the bottom of the stairs right now."

I proudly hand him my paper and announce there's actually only nine hundred and forty two left to go.

His eyes scan the lines as I wait for the applause.

There isn't any.

"Are you kidding me?" he exclaims in complete disgust. "This is terrible! There's no way you can hand this crap to Dad and expect he'll let you live."

"It's not crap," I flash, wounded. "Crap's the kind of stuff that Alan writes."

"Don't you start "crapping" back at me, little brother or I'll personally see to it that Grandma washes your mouth out with soap."

"But you say it."

"You're not me."

With a frustrated growl, he throws all my homework off the desk, reaches for a new piece of Tracy Corporation paper and demands I stop living my life as a death wish and start the whole damn thing again.

"Only if you promise stay here and help me."

"Well I'm going to have to if you don't want Dad in here kicking your ass."

I shrug in submission. Once again he's right. I make a grab for my pencil. Somehow under his guidance I know the words will come. But as I write them, my mind can't help but linger on those three other very truthful words.

"You're not me."

No, I'm not Scott. I'm nothing like him. I'm eleven and a half, not even five feet yet, and I always get the blame for everything that seems to go wrong. But one day, I'm not going be the one that they blame. One day I'm going be just as tall and self-confident as him and when I am, Dad'll tell everyone how proud he is of me too.

"Mission accomplished!" I finally announce; and then wait for my creation to receive the thumbs up. After a nod of satisfaction it's acceptable, he rises to his feet and leans forward to close the drapes.

"Well, squirt. All you have left to do now is apologise for what you did to me earlier."

When I look at him without comment, he folds his arms across his body and forehead furrows in a frown.

"Come on. Out with it. We both know for a fact that Dad's going to ask me if you did."

It's then the Gordon Tracy grin tells him the "other side of the story."

Me?

Apologise?

I don't think so.

Not when he finds out what I know.

"Scott ... "I say casually, "... how was the scotch you drank from Dad's private stash?"

"What?" he splutters. "How in the hell do you know about that?"

"Oh ...a little birdie told me that you were sampling a glass or two before Dad came home for dinner. And that you told Virgil you could hold it better than Dad could."

"I did not say that, Gordon."

"Err... I think you did. You also said you could hold it so good Dad wouldn't even know you'd been drinking it."

"You mean you were spying on us?"

"Maybe I was. Maybe I wasn't."

"Well if you were, you'd better keep your mouth shut if you know what's good for you."

I grin.

"Still want that apology, Scott?"

Somehow I don't think Dad will view that quite the same as you.

O-O-O-O

Epilogue

Jeff Tracy sat at end of the dimly lit bed, quietly reading the words on the distinctive Tracy Corporation paper.

"Why good food shouldn't be wasted."

Scott's distinctive flair for sentence structure … written in Gordon's neatest hand.

Despite the lateness of the hour and the need to stifle a yawn he couldn't help but feel happy as his eyes scanned the length of the five pages. He'd wondered what Scott had been up to all evening. The last thing he'd said was that he was going to watch some television. He supposed he should have guessed he'd call in on Gordon somewhere along the way. Scott had never been able to sit back when any of his brothers were in trouble.

His attention moved from the carefully worded lines to the sleeping figure curled up next to the pillow beneath the covers of the bed.

Trouble.

Trouble was an understatement to describe this one. Stubborn and funny like his mother; direct and over-thinking like himself.

He didn't know why; but lately, every day seemed to have become a test of his patience when it came to raising Gordon. Keeping up with his energy was nothing short of exhausting. Lord knows what he planned to put him through tomorrow.

With that, he smiled fondly.

Despite all the pandemonium the kid caused and the daily trail of havoc he seemed to leave in his path, it was hard to stay mad at Gordon for longer than a few minutes. He brightened the world just by being himself.

Maybe, in hindsight, he'd been a little too harsh with what happened at the dinner table. It was only a plate of his mother's pot-roast and there was plenty more left over for Scott. He supposed he could have dealt with it without losing his temper. If he didn't think so, his mother had certainly told him to think long and hard. The child was only happy to see his brother again; she'd explained to him over the extra glass of cognac. He just had a very obscure way of showing his love. A little sugar in a salt shaker wasn't the end of the world. She felt that sometimes he was being too hard when it came to the two younger boys.

Despite the way he felt about order and the need for discipline, his mother was probably right. In fact, by the time she started pouring him another glass, he was even starting to laugh about the genius of the whole thing. Scott sometimes tended to rush into certain things. Maybe the shock of the sugar had taught him to think first.

Jeff Tracy's tired features relaxed.

He worked himself into the ground to give his boys nothing but the best and tried so hard to raise them to appreciate and respect. Maybe he could live with a little food wastage if it taught the two of them a lesson. If nothing else it had brought them together, something he knew Gordon missed more than anything else.

His hand rested on the lamp switch.

It was never easy raising boys alone.

Now it was time to deal with the two inches of Black label 'mysteriously missing.'

Next stop - a chat with Scott.

THE END


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